Chapter One - The Orphan's Burden
2380 Words
The orphanage was a cage built of misery.
From the outside, it looked like a neglected hunting lodge: a squat, sagging building tucked into the farthest corner of Alpha Victor’s lands, far away from the pack house and the bustle of pack life. It stood at the edge of the territory, far from the main pack house, as if even its shadow was too shameful to fall across the heart of the pack. The walls sagged with rot, the roof leaked when it rained, and the air inside always smelled of damp, sickness, and despair. Rats nested in the straw pallets, and wolves stationed outside laughed whenever children screamed at the scurrying claws in the dark. The outside walls were weather-beaten and streaked with damp; half the shutters hung crooked, and the roof sagged where tiles had long since rotted away. In winter, cold seeped through every crack, biting at small bones. In summer, the stench of sweat, unwashed straw, and mildew turned the air foul.
Inside, fifty children lived like unwanted animals. The youngest was no more than a few weeks old, swaddled in rags; the oldest were nearly eighteen, watching the days tick toward a fate no one dared speak aloud. Some would be sold. Some imprisoned. Some killed. Inside, the halls were narrow and dim, lit by guttering lanterns that threw weak, wavering light over the stone floors.
The smell of iron and rot never left—blood from punishments, sickness untreated, filth from too many bodies crammed into too few rooms. Straw mats served as bedding, shared between children of all ages, from swaddled infants to near-grown teenagers. Rats scurried along the rafters at night, and wolves on guard would sometimes laugh cruelly as children screamed when one ran across them in the dark.
The carers were little more than jailors: bitter, mean-spirited wolves who shoved bowls of watery porridge into the children’s hands, hit them for crying, and looked the other way when Alpha Victor or his men came to vent their cruelty. For them, the orphans weren’t pups—they were burdens. Broken things. Currency to be traded, sold, or discarded when they reached eighteen. Only Luna Helena—the Alpha’s mate—ever showed kindness, and even hers came rarely, quietly, slipped like contraband into the children’s hands when no one else was watching.
She came rarely, her steps soft and tentative, slipping through the halls when she was sure her mate was away. She never raised her voice, never struck, never looked at the children with disgust. Instead, she would bring what she could—an extra loaf of bread from the kitchen, salves for bruises, sometimes even clean blankets when winter winds howled the loudest.
The children loved her in their quiet way, but they also feared for her. For Luna Helena carried sorrow like a cloak, her eyes always cast downward, her hands trembling when she touched a child’s cheek. Everyone knew why: each time Victor slaked his cruelty on the orphans, each time he forced himself on a girl, Helena felt it in the mate bond like a knife twisting in her chest. She loathed what he did. She hated the way the pack turned blind eyes. But she was too weak, too bound, to stop him.
And so she helped when she could. Quietly. Secretly. Always with fear that he might find out.
In this pit of fear, one girl stood apart. She had no name, not to the pack. They called her “orphan,” “brat,” “you.” But to the children, she was everything—protector, sister, shield.
That night, Selena sat with the youngest children gathered close around her. A draft slipped under the door, making the candlelight flicker. Across the room, a boy of twelve rubbed his arms, his lips tinged blue from the cold.
Selena shifted, tugging her threadbare blanket tighter around the two toddlers pressed to her sides. “Come here, Daniel,” she murmured, beckoning the boy.
He hesitated, pride warring with need, but when she lifted one corner of the blanket invitingly, he hurried over and pressed against her. She tucked him in with the others. “Better?”
He nodded mutely, and for the first time that day, some of the tension in his shoulders eased.
On the far side of the room, Clara—sixteen, with an infant in her arms—rocked her baby while humming a broken tune. The child, small and frail, had inherited his mother’s brown hair and none of the father’s features. Selena often thought that was the only mercy the Moon Goddess had given Clara.
The door banged open suddenly, rattling the weak hinges. A carer stalked in—a hard-faced she-wolf with deep lines around her mouth. She carried a thin pot of porridge, slopping gray mush into wooden bowls. “Eat,” she barked. “And don’t spill it this time, or you’ll lick it off the floor.”
The older children lined up automatically, resigned to the routine. Selena rose, steadying one toddler who wobbled toward the bowls. She crouched to meet his wide, fearful eyes.
“Take one for your sister, too,” she whispered. “I’ll make sure no one pushes you aside.”
The boy nodded and scurried forward. As expected, two bigger boys shoved past, reaching for bowls before him. Selena was faster. She stepped forward, her arm blocking one boy’s hand, her gaze sharp as steel.
“Wait your turn.”
The boy glared but backed off. Selena didn’t raise her voice, didn’t move aggressively—she didn’t need to. Everyone here, even the teenagers taller than her, knew she wouldn’t bend.
When the porridge was finally handed out, thin and tasteless, the children ate in silence, broken only by the sound of spoons scraping wood.
It was only after the carer left, muttering under her breath, that Selena whispered. “Don’t threaten the children again.” Tisha, the wiry ten-year-old, looked at Selena with wide eyes.
“You shouldn’t talk to her like that,” Tisha said. “She’ll tell the Alpha.”
“Maybe,” Selena said calmly, dipping her spoon into her own bowl. “But sometimes, you have to choose which fight is worth it. Today, it was worth it.”
Jace, his bruised cheek swollen, snorted softly. “You’re always picking fights.”
Selena gave him a small smile. “No, Jace. I’m always picking you.”
The boy ducked his head, hiding the faintest flush of pride.
As the children ate, Selena moved among them, helping the littlest hold their spoons, steadying bowls so they didn’t spill. When Clara’s baby began to fuss, she crouched beside her, whispering, “Eat. I’ll hold him.”
Clara hesitated only a moment before passing the babe into Selena’s arms. Selena rocked him gently, murmuring, “There now, little one. You’ll grow strong. Stronger than all of them.”
The words weren’t only for him. They were for every child in this room.
“Tell us a story,” whispered Tisha, the wiry ten-year-old who clung to her the way ivy clung to stone.
She sat cross-legged on the straw floor, a half-circle of little ones curled against her. She adjusted the blanket over their shoulders, smoothing their hair back gently.
The girl hesitated, then smiled faintly. “All right. A short one. But you have to promise to close your eyes when I’m done.”
The littlest ones nodded eagerly.
She lowered her voice, her words weaving into the candlelit hush. “Once, a long time ago, the Moon Goddess looked down and saw a world full of pain. So she sent a little light to walk among the wolves—a spark, so small no one noticed at first. But the spark was strong, stronger than anyone could imagine. It grew and grew, and one day it burned bright enough to chase away all the shadows.”
The children sighed softly. Tisha’s eyes fluttered closed, though she whispered, “Do you think the Moon Goddess will send us a spark, too?”
The girl tucked the blanket tighter around her. “She already has. You. All of you. You’re the spark.”
“Not me,” Micka muttered from her other side. He was twelve, his ribs sharp under his too-thin shirt. “I’m too weak.”
She turned to face him fully, her dark eyes steady. “No, Daniel. You’re strong, because you keep going. Strength isn’t about how big your fists are. It’s about standing up, even when it hurts. And I see you do it every day.”
Micka’s throat bobbed, his gaze dropping. For the first time in days, pride flickered in his eyes.
Before any of them could say more, the door banged open.
Alpha Victor’s massive frame filled the doorway, his shadow spilling across the straw floor. The children went rigid, terror radiating from them like cold mist. Some whimpered. Clara, sixteen, clutched her infant tightly to her chest, trying to make herself invisible.
Victor’s eyes swept the room, gleaming with cruel amusement. “Quiet little rats tonight,” he drawled.
No one spoke. No one dared.
Except her.
The nameless girl stood slowly, placing herself between him and the children. She bowed her head just enough to avoid outright defiance but kept her body square.
Alpha Victor’s lips curved into a sneer. “You again. Always you. Thinking you’re something more than the rest.”
He stepped forward, the floor creaking under his weight. The girl didn’t move.
“Alpha,” she said evenly. “They’ve eaten. They’ll sleep. There’s no need—”
The slap came fast, cracking across her face and sending her staggering. Gasps rose from the children, muffled instantly by hands clapped over mouths.
Alpha Victor grabbed her by the hair, yanking her upright until she met his eyes. “Don’t tell me what I need.” His voice was a low snarl, hot with rage. “You forget your place. You’re nothing. Less than nothing. You breathe because I allow it.”
Her scalp burned, her jaw ached from the blow, but she didn’t break his gaze. Behind her, the children whimpered, their fear slicing deeper than any pain in her body.
“Then let me stay nothing,” she said softly, forcing the words past swollen lips. “But leave them alone.”
His expression hardened. He slammed her to the floor. A boot pressed into her ribs, forcing the breath from her lungs. She bit back a cry, unwilling to give him the satisfaction.
Victor leaned close, his voice dripping venom. “One day, girl, you’ll wish I killed you instead of letting you rot here.”
With a final shove, he released her and stalked out, slamming the door so hard the lanterns swayed.
The room was silent, save for the sound of her ragged breathing.
“Are you—are you okay?” Mara’s small voice broke the hush.
The girl pushed herself up slowly, wincing at the ache in her side. She forced a smile, though her lip bled. “I’m fine. He’s gone.”
Daniel edged closer, his eyes wide and wet. “You shouldn’t stand up to him. He’ll kill you.”
She touched his shoulder gently. “If I don’t stand up, who will?”
The children gathered around her, their fear softening into the comfort of her presence. She pulled them close again, ignoring the pain radiating through her ribs.
When all was quiet once more, she lay down with them, whispering into the dark. “He can call me nothing. But you know the truth. One day, I’ll make sure no one ever hurts you again.”
Above the orphanage, the moonlight slipped through the broken shutters, silver against her bruised face. She closed her eyes, clutching the secret name the Moon had given her deep inside her chest.
Selena.
No one spoke it aloud, but it burned brighter each time she endured.
Later, after the children lay in their straw beds, Luna Helena slipped quietly through the door. She carried a basket covered with cloth, her face pale in the candlelight.
“Orphan girl,” she whispered, beckoning her closer.
Selena rose, careful not to wake the children, and crossed to her. Luna Helena lifted the cloth, revealing bread rolls, two apples, and a small jar of honey. Selena’s heart clenched at the sight—it was more food than they had seen in weeks.
“Share it in the morning,” Luna Helena murmured, her voice trembling. “Before the carers come. Quickly, so they don’t notice.”
Selena met her eyes, seeing the shame there. The Luna’s hands shook as she pressed the basket into her grip.
“You shouldn’t—” Selena began, but Luna Helena shook her head.
“I can’t stop him,” she whispered, so low only Selena could hear. “But I can do this. Please… don’t tell anyone.”
Selena swallowed the lump in her throat and nodded. “Thank you.”
Luna Helena brushed her hand over one of the baby’s heads, her face pinched with sorrow. Then she slipped back out as silently as she came, vanishing into the night.
Selena stood for a long moment, clutching the basket, before returning to the children. She placed it by her mat, covering it again. They would feast in the morning, just for once.
As she settled back down, little Mara crawled closer, whispering, “Do you think the Moon Goddess sees us?”
Selena looked toward the shuttered window, where a thin line of silver light pierced the cracks. Her secret stirred inside her, warm and strong.
“Yes,” she said softly, tucking Mara against her side. “She sees. And one day, she’ll send us a way out.”
The child sighed, comforted, and drifted to sleep. Selena lay awake long after, listening to the breathing of fifty children, her arms around them like a shield.
Her name burned quietly in her heart—Selena—a promise, a weapon, a destiny.
And she swore, with the Moon Goddess as her witness, that no matter the cost, she will lead them to freedom.
- Writer
